


Into Dust

by nu_breed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-12
Updated: 2007-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/pseuds/nu_breed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always disappears and Dean's always left behind to make sense of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my braintwin [](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/profile)[**veronamay**](http://veronamay.livejournal.com/), who means more to me than I can ever put into words: Happy Birthday, Sel. Innumerable thanks to [](http://missyjack.livejournal.com/profile)[**missyjack**](http://missyjack.livejournal.com/) for the beta and [](http://jamesinboots.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jamesinboots.livejournal.com/)**jamesinboots** for cheerleading. Title by Mazzy Star.

Sam's always had a habit of disappearing.

The first time he disappears, he's six. Dean stands outside Sam's class for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes staring at the wall where the plaster has started to crack and splinter. Stands there until he gets sick of waiting and barges in to find Sam's teacher, preparing lessons.

She tells Dean that Sam hadn't shown up for class that afternoon and none of the children had any idea where he was.

Dean's heart begins to pound so hard and fast that he thinks it might just jump out of his chest. Everything seems to be moving in slow-motion and he barely takes in a word she's saying.

"Dean?" She says, dropping to her knees in front of him, "Is there anyone you need me to call? I've already tried to reach your father..."

Dean shakes his head and backs away. When he reaches the door, he runs up the corridor. Fast. Just like he'd been taught, just like he'd run if anything was on his tail.

It's ten p.m. when he and his father finally head home. They've searched all the places that Sam knows and a whole heap that he doesn't, and still no sign of him. Dean's never seen his father scared before; he hadn't thought that his Dad could be scared of anything, but watching him, Dean realises that he'd been wrong.

When they get home, Sam is sitting on the doorstep, his knees skinned and bloody and a thin, dirty kitten in his lap.

"Sammy?" His dad lurches forward and grabs Sam by the shoulders, searching his face, his body for injuries. "Where the _hell_ have you been? You know you're not supposed to go off on your own."

Sam flinches and lifts up the kitten. "I could hear her, Dad, when I was eating my lunch. I heard her in my head and she was scared and I went to find her and there she was up in the branches." He looks down at his feet. "I fell out of the tree, Dad, and I don't remember anything after that."

"You are not to go chasing kittens or _anything_ again, Sammy, d'you hear me? And you have to let this one go - you know the rules about pets."

Dad's hands clench at his sides and Dean swears he can see tears in his Dad's eyes, when he leaves the two boys and goes inside.

"But. But I want her, Dean." Sam's lower lip quivers. "I found her and she's mine and she told me to come and rescue her and."

"I know, Sammy, I know." Dean ruffles his brother's hair. "But Dad's right, we can't..."

"He's so mean sometimes, Dean. I hate him," Sam whines. "I hate him so much."

Sam gives Dean the kitten and Dean shakes his head.

"You don't hate him, Sammy, you don't." Dean strokes the kitten. It purrs, rubbing against him and Dean wishes for once that they could keep the kitten. Only for Sammy of course, he couldn't care less.

"Now," Dean says, trying to catch Sam's eye, "let's go give her to Mr McGraw. He never says no to strays. Then you can go visit as much as you want, okay? Then we'll get you cleaned up and get some dinner into you, you must be starving."

Sam huffs out a huge sigh, but he nods and follows Dean, his eyes gazing at the kitten the whole way to Mr McGraw's house.

***

The next few times Sam disappears he's twelve years old and it isn't a one-time thing. Dean can't help but notice the pattern; it's every Tuesday after school.

It's the same every week. He tells Dean that he's going to study at the library so he doesn't need to be picked up. He comes home _hours_ later and when Dean asks Sam exactly what's so important that he has to study every week, Sam just rolls his eyes like it's the most annoying question in the world and mumbles, "Stuff".

Dean dreads to think about how sullen Sam's going to be when he gets to be Dean's age.

Normally, he wouldn't have cared so much. If Sam was safe, then why worry? He had more important things to do, like Lisa Martelli, who had the best boobs he had ever seen and smelled like almond lotion and cheap perfume. Except of course, his Dad isn't happy about Sam being anywhere on his own. In fact, his Dad pretty much worries about Sam all the time, like he's precious cargo or something.

So Dean follows Sam after his classes end one Tuesday, just to be sure he isn't doing something he shouldn't. Dean can't quite believe it when the place he trails Sam to turns out to be the soccer field.

Sam turns around, just as they step onto the field and huffs out a long breath through his nose.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"Interesting subject you're studying there. You learn a lot from chasing a ball around a field?"

"Yeah, well, you caught me. You going to tell Dad?"

"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks, though it's more statement than question and folds his arms. "You know you're not supposed to go off on your own."

"I'm not a kid anymore," Sam mumbles under his breath.

"Yeah, you are." Dean inhales sharply. "Don't be in such a hurry to grow up, Sam. Once you do, there's no going back."

Dean feels like maybe he's a hypocrite for saying that. He's never had a childhood, so he can't blame Sam if he wants to shrug his off. But Dean doesn't want that for Sam. It's bad enough that the kid's every waking hour is spent balancing schoolwork and Latin texts, homework and weapons training and he knows it's only a matter of time before Sam'll be out there on the frontline too.

If the kid wants to play soccer, have some damn fun, what's so bad about that?

***

The next time Sam disappears, it's the night of the winter formal.

Sam's only going because Penny Simpson's asked him. She's a junior, but she's had a thing for Sam since he joined the Latin club. Dean teased him mercilessly when he joined, calling him a geek and a loser and every other insult under the sun, but their Dad had thought it was a great idea - said it was a way to hone his skills. Sam was more interested in the extra credit he was getting for it.

Penny may be a geek, but she’s a hot one. Blonde and athletic-looking and she looks at Sam like she thinks he can make her happy, like he's the answer to all the questions she hasn't asked yet.

Dean disliked her on sight, but he flat-out loathes her when Sam leaves to pick her up, wearing the suit that Dean had spent all his hard-earned poker money on.

He looks so damn grown-up that it scares Dean. That must be the reason for the clench that he gets in his stomach, like it's folding in on itself. It must be fear because what the hell else could it be?

Dean isn't sure where the ugly, stabbing jealousy had come from, either. It may have something to do with the fact that suddenly Sam's all grown up and the little brother adoration that's always healthily fed Dean's ego has changed somehow.

Nothing to do with what the last six months have done to Sam. How it's made the puppy fat turn to lean, hard muscle. How his cheekbones have become sharp and his mouth full and his eyes more jaded, less innocent.

No, it has to be that there are other people now who hold Sam's attention, and that makes Dean envious as hell. It's ridiculous really, Dean has _plenty_ of attention from plenty of people, more than he needs most days.

He certainly doesn't need the attention of his pissy, control-freak of a teenaged brother who doesn't look at all filled out and really fucking handsome in his tux.

Not at all.

Their father's away with Caleb and Bobby, fighting werewolves in South Carolina and Dean can't stand being in the house by himself; his skin prickles and feels like it's on-fire and he can't shut his brain off.

He finds himself thinking about Sam, pictures him drinking spiked punch, Penny on his lap and his head thrown back, laughing with his whole body like he always does. It's too much and Dean needs to shut out the noise, the assault on his brain. He ends up at Joe's, drinking tequila shots with a hot brunette with long, long legs who wraps them around his waist as he fucks her out the back against the dumpster.

He feels empty somehow, like there's this hole in the pit of his stomach and if he thinks too hard about it, he'll know exactly who it is that's put it there.

Can't. Mustn't let himself. He's stronger than that.

When Dean gets back from the bar at around 1am, Sam's bed is still made and there's no sign of him.

Dean tries to sleep, but he's far too wired for that, so he sits and watches crappy infomercials advertising shit that's supposed to improve people's lives. Like a book or a set of fucking tapes can do that.

When Sam finally rolls in around three, Dean's still half-drunk and livid, anger running hot under his skin. He doesn't waste any time, just strides across the room and stands, inches away from his brother.

"Bit late, isn't it? Don't you have some kind of curfew?"

"You never did."

That much is true. Their Dad's too busy with things no other kids' fathers would ever have to deal with to worry about what time his sons come home from a school dance, or whether they're using their fake IDs to buy beer. Anyway, Sam's probably already gotten the five-minute bare bones sex-talk just like Dean did at his age.

Dean never did have the heart to tell his Dad it was too late for that particular talk in his case.

"Still damn late, Sammy. You shouldn't be traipsing the streets at three o'clock in the fucking morning at your age."

At any age.

Sam reeks of beer and pot and he has candy-pink lipstick marks all over his face and dark fucking bruises on his neck and Dean's never wanted to hit him so badly in his life.

"Aw. C'mon Dean. Why you always gotta be acting like Dad? You told me to be a kid, remember? 'Sides, you were probably out fucking someone tonight anyway. What do you care?"

Sam is slurring and his eyes look like they're struggling to keep focused and Dean pushes him down onto his bed so that Sam doesn't get the opportunity to fall over.

"Yeah, well." Dean kneels in front of Sam. "You're not acting like a kid, are you? Fuckin' stink of a chick on you, and booze and drugs. You tryin' to act like me, little brother?"

_"Once you do, there's no going back."_

Dean grins then, but he knows goddamn well that it doesn't look real. Can't, because it doesn't feel anywhere near real and he may be smiling, but on the inside he's churning. Sam always disappears, always leaves him and Dean can't help but wonder if this is just the way it's always going to be with the two of them, Sam leaving and Dean chasing after him and he can't, he can't do it and...

Dean doesn't get to finish his thought process, doesn't even get to catch up because Sam leans forward then and brushes his lips against Dean's.

It feels like so much (too much) all within the space of those few seconds. Feels like sparks coursing through him and before he can tell himself it's a really bad idea, he kisses back. Grabs Sam by the biceps and pulls him in and down and kisses him hard and urgent.

Doing it like this; fast and desperate, means Dean doesn't have to think and that's better, because when Sam draws back a little to catch his breath, the thoughts start coming.

Thoughts like bad and wrong and too young and your brother, you fucking head case and Dean finds himself on his feet, backing away from Sam. One hand wiping at his mouth, trying to erase any evidence that Sam was ever there.

But he can still feel the imprint of Sam's lips on his and Dean knows that it's never going to fade, no matter how much he wants it to.

_Don't really want it to at all. Filthy, fucking liar._

"Dean?" Sam gets to his feet, shaky and clumsy and grabs onto Dean's shirt to steady himself. "What's wrong? Why did you...?"

"What's _wrong_? Dude, you're a smart kid, you're not seriously asking me that."

"You wanted this." Sam nods furiously. "I can tell. Could always tell."

Dean thinks that's probably right. Sam always seems to know everything that's supposed to happen before it does. Insight, his Dad calls it.

Sam clutches at Dean, grabs him by the arms and Dean pushes him away so hard that he overbalances and crashes onto his ass on the ground.

"Shit, Sammy. You okay?"

Dean hauls him to his feet, his ridiculously tall and heavy and drunk excuse for a brother with the crumpled tux and the messed-up hair and the half-undone tie and his mouth all red and…

Jesus, he's fucked in the head.

"Not Sammy anymore," Sam slurs. "Sam, just Sam."

"You'll always be Sammy," Dean whispers, under his breath. "That's the whole point."

When Dean wakes the next morning, Sam's gone.

He comes back around one pm with his neck covered in bruises and a huge grin on his face.

Dean wants to slam his face into the fucking floor.

***

The first time Sam leaves, actually leaves and doesn't come back, it's in the middle of the night.

Dean wakes to find him packing, throwing his clothes into his bag with all the anger and resentment that an eighteen-year-old, pissed at the world, but most of all at his dad, can muster.

Dean rolls out of bed and grabs Sam by the arm, hand hard on his bicep. He snarls, "Where the fuck do you think you're going, Sammy? Dad said..."

"Yeah, well Dad can kiss my ass," Sam bites back. "If you're going to try and stop me, just... don't waste your breath, Dean. Just don't."

"You're acting like a fuckin' baby, Sam. Just calm down. You know Dad. In the morning he'll..."

"Oh for God's sake, Dean." Sam is angry, Sam's really fucking angry, spitting out his words through gritted teeth. "Just shut up about Dad, okay?"

"What the fuck is your problem?" Dean's all up in Sam's face now and he can feel Sam's breath on his skin. It makes him hard, which just makes him angrier. His jaw clenches and his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands.

"You know what, Sam? If you'd only listened to Dad in the first place, none of this would've..."

"Fuck Dad." Sam sounds cold and brittle, like chips of ice and it makes Dean's stomach churn. "And fuck you."

Dean laughs, laughs hollow and nasty because it's the only thing he can do to stop himself giving into the absolute gut wrenching anger that he can feel through his entire body. The only thing he can do to stop himself from burying his fist in Sam's face.

Leaving again - for good this time. Dean's sick of it, sick and fucking tired and he just doesn't know what more he's expected to do. How the hell's he supposed to hold his family together when it seems like all they want to do is split apart?

"You think this is funny?" Sam shakes his head angrily. He turns back to throw the last of his things into his bag, zips it shut and throws it over his shoulder.

Dean wonders what it says about them, that any one of them could fit their entire life into one miserable bag. One bag's all it takes to pack up and leave like none of them ever existed in the first place.

"Well, it's kinda a little bit funny. Pathetic, actually," Dean says, leaning against the wall behind him, arms crossed, cutting himself off.

Sam stares at Dean for a few seconds and Dean wants to look away. Sam seems to have the ability to make him feel awkward, naked under his gaze at the best of times, but this is so much worse. Dean's never seen him this angry, this... brittle and he flinches when Sam lets the bag drop, loud thud echoing in the awful, cloying silence.

"Pathetic, huh?" Sam moves right in and he's in Dean's face, breathing hard. His voice is measured, calculated, slicing through the air like a knife. "I am walking out that door, Dean, isn't there anything you wanted to say?"

"Nope." Dean grits his teeth, biting down on everything he wants to, needs to say. "Enjoy your walk to the bus."

Already had the fucking ticket, the little asshole.

Sam drives his fist into the wall next to him. Dean jumps a little, because he wasn't expecting it, not from Sam, who always has fancy words and insults and never resorts to just hitting or kicking or throwing or any of the things that normal guys do.

Not that Dean really has any idea what normal guys do anyway.

"You're just gonna let me walk out?" Sam sounds completely exasperated; puffing like he's just been for a five mile run and not because he's just been making the worst decision of his life and punching walls.

"You wanna leave," Dean shrugs, "I can't stop you."

"You could try, though." Sam doesn't sound so angry now, he sounds defeated and small. Like when he was a kid, but he most definitely isn't a kid at this moment. Not when he leans in with his hips, holding Dean in place as he cradles the back of his head with one hand and attacks his mouth, kissing him savage and hard.

Dean wasn't expecting that, not here and not now. Sam's mouth on his feels so right and he moans, gives in for a few seconds, his belly flooding with warmth and need. Sam knows exactly what he's doing with his hands and mouth, and Dean doesn't even want to think about how and where Sam's gotten so good at this. Dean can feel Sam's crotch rubbing against his and Christ, Sam's hard and Dean wants to give in so badly.

Wants to, but he really, really can't. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and pushes him back.

"Can't, Sammy. Can't do this."

Sam drops to his knees and rubs his cheek over the line of Dean's cock, rigid in his jeans.

"You don't have to do anything," Sam whispers. "Just call it a goodbye present."

"Sam," Dean warns, his hands clenching at his sides and anger rising in him once more.

"No," Sam shakes his head. "I need this. _We_ need this. Aren't you sick of doing the right thing?

He laughs. "No-one's ever accused me of doing the right thing before, Sammy."

Sam doesn't say anything, just unbuckles Dean's belt and flicks open the button on his jeans, hand reaching inside as the zipper gives. Dean just stands there and lets him, because yeah, he is tired of sitting on this thing, whatever it is. This thing that's been eating him up like acid on the inside for what feels like forever. Giving in has to be easier than fighting it.

Besides, he's tired of being the responsible one. Dean doesn't _do_ responsible and Sam's leaving, not just taking off for hours, or a day.

Leaving and never coming back.

So he lets Sam, lets him sink to his knees and take Dean's cock in his warm, smooth hand. Lets him brush his lips over it, feather light and Jesus, it feels like a fucking jolt right through him, Dean's head wants to go back and his eyes want to shut, but he has to see this.

Needs to watch Sam as he licks up the length of Dean's cock, that fucking mouth that's too smart for its own good, but looks perfect licking and mouthing and ohfuckingchrist going down on him like this. Sam looks up at Dean and he looks so young then, so eager to please and Dean's never going to get this image out of his head, Sam on his knees, his hair falling in his eyes and his mouth working on Dean's cock. Warm wetness surrounding Dean, making him dizzy. Dean's had blowjobs before and this one certainly isn't perfect. It's sloppy and clumsy, but it's pretty much the hottest thing he's ever seen or felt in his life. Sam. Sam on his knees for Dean. Sam who he's wanted for far too long to be healthy.

Sam who's leaving.

Dean feels himself lose control at that, feels angry and desperate and there's no room for thinking about what happens after, not now. He grabs Sam, fingers twisted in his too-long hair, hair that Dad always tries to get him to cut but Sam always says no. Sam says no a lot. But he's not saying no right now. He moans as Dean just takes him, driving his cock in and out, feeling that sweet mouth working him and it's so hot and wet and perfect and Dean's thrusting harder now, so hard it has to be hurting Sam.

Doesn't want to hurt him, but Sam's a big boy and he asked for this, so Dean gives it to him, gives him what he wants. He thrusts in again and mumbles, "Gonna. Fuck, Sam." Sam hums around Dean's cock, just waiting for it and Dean comes, pulsing into Sam's mouth as he swallows around him. Dean can't help the ridiculously embarrassing noises that Sam's wringing out of him and when he's finally, finally still, Sam pulls back, grins, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His red, used, dirty, fucking eighteen-year old mouth.

Dean's breathing, hard and fast and he leans against the wall, because he's worried if he doesn't that he might just fall to the ground on legs that are made of liquid.

"Drive me to the bus?"

Dean's aware that Sam just blew him and he hasn't made any effort to reciprocate, but it doesn't seem like Sam wants that, anyway. He just nods and adjusts himself, tucking his spent cock into his pants, doing them up and wiping a hand over his face. Tries to wake himself up, to snap himself back to the here and now. Anything to stop him focusing on the fact that his little brother just sucked his cock and now he's leaving and Dean's going to take him wherever he wants to go.

They get their shit together and Dean thinks about telling his father, but doesn't. He doesn't think he's ready to deal with that conversation tonight.

They drive to the bus station in silence, the air between the two of them thick with broken promises and so many things left unsaid.

When they get there, Sam leans over and kisses Dean goodbye. Fucking kisses him and walks away and leaves Dean behind to try and make sense of it all.

***

Six months after Dean wrestled Sam to the ground and dragged him kicking and screaming back into his life, six months after he carried Sam out of a fire for the second time in their lives and six months after Sam became an agent of vengeance just like their father, Sam walks out on Dean. Again.

Sam does this. It's his thing. Dean gets that now.

He also gets that Sam's angry, his anger settled down deep in his belly and turning him bitter and cold. He can't blame him; he remembers how angry their Dad was for so long, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Some days Dean feels like he's looking at a twenty-two year old version of John Winchester and it doesn't fit, doesn't gel with the memories he has of Sam, grinning and awkward and trustworthy. Sam's always had a rotten temper, but it's different now. He's angry at every fucking thing these days, angry at the world, their Dad, at Dean.

Dean knows he's never been good at saying the right thing, that's Sam's deal not his, and he's petrified that one wrong word, one wrong move and Sam'll snap like a rubber band pulled taut.

Snap, and walk away with his bag slung over his shoulder. Sam finds it so easy to walk away that it makes Dean nauseous. Yeah, this time's different because he comes back, but it still makes Dean sick to his stomach that any day now he could say the wrong thing and they'll be going through this crap all over again.

Dean wants to believe Sam when he says that Jessica's gone and isn't coming back and that he knows that he and Dean is all that's left, but he knows better. Sam's eyes still glaze over when he talks about her and Dean can't help but feel like his brother's holding onto a ghost, a memory of a perfect woman, just like their Dad held onto his.

***

They haven't touched since Sam left for Stanford, not like that. He hasn't even thought about it really, but when Dean sees Sam in that cage, sees that he's breathing and grinning and, thank God, not hurt, Dean wants to just reach through the bars and touch every inch of him, just to feel him, to know that he's there and real and _Dean's_ and not going away again.

He thinks about it all the way back to the car, thinks about it when they get to the next town. Thinks about it so much that he can feel himself getting hard in his jeans every time Sam speaks, his voice tired and raw and worn-out.

When Sam has visions, when he's doubled over in pain, weighted down with this fucking gift that he didn't ask for and Dean's comforting him, it would be so easy to touch him. So easy just to lean in, thread his fingers in Sam's hair. Tilt his head up and claim his mouth, just take it like he's been dying to. If Dean's honest with himself he's wanted to this whole time. Wanted to since he laid eyes on Sam, grown-up and happy with his perfect girlfriend and his perfect college life.

Sometimes Dean wants to touch Sam so badly that it feels like it's killing him not to.

***

Dean's become so accustomed to having Sam around, it's been so long now since the last time that Sam left him, that when he just up and leaves, Dean isn't prepared for it in the slightest.

He isn't prepared for having to sit there and watch his brother die, either. Sitting there having to listen to Gordon apologise for fucking murdering Sam, Dean realises he's never really wanted to tear a human limb-from-limb before.

Prison's too good for that psychotic fucker, anyway.

Sam's alive though. Sam's alive and standing in front of him and this time Dean can't help himself. He has to touch him, has to be able to confirm that his brother is in front of him and alive. Sam's face is scratched and bloody under his hands and he flinches a little when Dean checks him for injuries.

When they get back to the motel, Dean forgets he's supposed to be feeling relieved. Forgets he's supposed to be feeling anything except anger that makes his pulse beat faster and his cheeks red and makes him push Sam up against the door as soon as it's shut.

"What the… Get off me, you freak!" he yells, trying to push Dean away.

"No." Dean holds onto him, hands gripping Sam's shirt and holding him in place. "You're a fucking idiot for leaving me, Sam."

"And you're a fucking idiot for not telling me shit that I deserved to know," Sam shrugs. "So I guess we're even."

Dean swallows. Tries to ignore the pounding in his head and he doesn't know why he does it, but he leans in, lips touching Sam's, a not quite-kiss. Tentative brush of the lips to see if Sam freaks out, pulls away, hits him, whatever.

He doesn't though and Dean's not waiting for a permission slip. He pushes Sam back against the door, hips anchoring him there and kissing him for real this time, his hands holding Sam's wrists at his sides and his tongue licking between Sam's lips until Sam moans and opens for him.

Sam shakes his wrists free of Dean and holds him, one hand on the back of Dean's head, gripping his hair, and the other at his waist, hand just resting there as he deepens the kiss. Sam is desperate, frantic, like he's scared to let go and that makes Dean crazy with lust. Makes him pull back and mumble, "Bed," as Dean hooks his fingers in Sam's belt loops and walks the two of them backwards until the backs of his knees hit the side of the bed.

"Wanna suck you," Dean says, unbuttoning Sam's jeans and pulling them and his boxers down.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, barely audible.

Dean grips Sam's cock, rubbing it over his lips. The tip is wet and bitter and Dean slicks his lips with it, looking up at Sam the whole time. Sam is breathing hard, his mouth is open and his eyes are darker than Dean's ever seen them look.

Dean opens his mouth and goes down on Sam, slow, inch by inch. His tongue strokes the underside as he takes Sam's cock, hard and thick, into his mouth. It's been a long time since he's done this, and he'd forgotten how good it feels. Even better this time because it's Sam and when his cock is fully inside, Dean's nose pressing against Sam's belly, Dean grabs Sam's hands and puts them on the back of his head, hoping Sam will know exactly what Dean wants.

He does, and soon Sam is fucking Dean's mouth, his cock hitting the back of Dean's throat on every thrust. Sam looks amazing, biting his lip, his head thrown back and moaning, utter filth pouring out of his mouth. Dean's jaw aches from this and it feels so fucking good. He loves it, all of it: the way Sam is gripping Dean's hair, the way Sam's cock feels in his mouth, on his tongue. The weight and the taste and the smell of him and he can't help unbuttoning himself, pulling his own cock out and stroking himself in time with Sam's thrusts.

"Fuck," Sam moans and Dean looks up to see him watching. "You're. Oh Christ, man, hottest thing I've ever seen."

Sam's voice sounds scraped raw and his breath is ragged now, sounding more and more panicked. Dean can feel Sam's thrusts speeding up and he speeds up himself, fisting his cock faster as Sam chokes out a warning and comes, hard, down Dean's throat.

Dean swallows until there's nothing left and Sam pulls away, his cock slipping out of Dean's mouth. Sam drops to his knees and covers Dean's hand with his own, strokes him hard and fast as he pulls him in and kisses him, tongue swiping over Dean's lips and groaning, obviously tasting himself, which is so hot Dean can't even believe it. .

"Can't wait for you to fuck me, Dean," Sam whispers, voice catching on the words. "Been waiting so long for it, y'know. Wanna fuck you too. Want everything."

Dean nods, his brain spitting out all kinds of filthy fucking images: Sam on his hands and knees begging for Dean's cock, Dean on his back, spread open, while Sam teases him with that wicked-sweet tongue in Dean's ass, Sam bent over every surface in the room... Dean doesn't last long at all. He doesn't want it to end, but he can't stop himself, not with those pictures running through his head and that friction on his cock. Can't keep himself from driving his hips forward, fucking Sam's hand and his own and it's too much, too rough and too good and he's coming, hitting Sam's face and his chest.

Sam grins and it's just like the way he always grins, except this time it's much, much dirtier.

"Maybe I should get killed more often, hm?"

Dean tries to ignore that, tries to ignore the pain in his chest, like someone's dropped a ton of bricks on him. He heads straight to the shower, hoping the water's going to wash the itch off his skin that Sam seems to have put there.

***

There are things that Dean's seen that he knows he'll never recover from: the Shtriga trying to feed on Sam, the first spirit he saw with his own eyes, the demon in his father's body shredding him on the inside... But nothing's ever going to stick with him like being shot by that thing wearing Sam's face.

He tries not to look at Sam and see it, but that's easier said than done, because it's still his face. Sam looks the same as he did the night Dean found him with blood all over his shirt and fake memory-loss. Looks the same as he did the night he disappeared, before he went out to buy burgers, when he was lying in bed, fucked-out and sleepy, but happy to go and buy dinner, because Dean couldn't leave the motel room.

Dean knows it isn't Sam's fault, knows he didn't ask for this to happen, but it still makes him flinch when he thinks about that thing inside Sam's body, making it, making _Sam_ hurt people. Making him shoot and hit and taunt his own brother.

"I had sex." Sam says, so quiet Dean thinks that maybe he misheard it at first. "I mean, she had sex. In my body. She made me, with a couple of guys she found in a club." He looks away like he can't even look Dean in the face. "Made me... well, you know. Let them fuck me."

Dean swallows and the back of his throat tastes like bitterness and bile. He tries not to think of it, Sam on his knees, sucking one guy off while the other one fucks him from behind. It feels dirty and wrong, like it shouldn't be making him hard like it is. Dean feels like he needs to take a shower and scrub the dirt from his body. But that kind of dirt never washes off.

"It's not your fault, Sammy. I already told you that." He pauses, "and that, that's pretty much rape."

Sam nods. He sits down next to Dean on the bed, fingers touching Dean's shoulder, tracing gently around the edges of the wound.

"Does it hurt?' He asks.

Dean inhales sharply. "Sometimes, yeah." He wants to tell Sam it doesn't, but he doesn't think Sam would believe him, anyway and besides, he's sick of lying to Sam. It's exhausting.

"Dean, I'm..."

"You tell me you're sorry one more time, Sam, I will shoot you in the head."

Sam huffs out a laugh. When he moves to get up, Dean shakes his head and pulls him back down. Sam goes to sleep, wrapped around Dean and he looks so peaceful, so innocent. This is how they used to lie together when they were kids, when Sam was having bad dreams about fire and Dad dying and Dean would have to do just this, let Sammy climb into his bed to comfort him.

Sometimes it's really easy for Dean to forget that Sam has so much darkness surrounding him now. Sometimes Dean feels like he's drowning in evil, too.

***

There's all sorts of shit Dean's done in his life that he wishes he could take back: wishes he hadn't lost his virginity to Lana Adrian when he was thirteen, she turned out to be a total skank who laughed at him afterwards and told everyone in their class he cried. Wishes he'd paid more attention to his Latin lessons when he was growing up, because he always needs the book for rituals, even the simplest ones. Wishes he'd never seen a life that he desperately wants, but can't have, because now half the time it's all he can think about and he feels empty.

But none of that compares to how much he wishes he didn't like food the way he does. Perhaps if he wasn't so fucking hungry all the time, he wouldn't have sent Sam into that damn diner for cheeseburgers and pie.

Every inch of him, every fucking inch of him wants to take that back.

Sam doesn't feel dead at first, not when Dean's still holding him. He feels warm and alive and maybe if Dean didn't have blood all over his hands, he could convince himself that Sam is just sleeping. He looks like he did when they were kids, when Sam was so exhausted he just couldn't keep his eyes open and Dean wants to believe that, but the wet, sticky red all over Sam's back and on Dean, tells a different story.

By the time Bobby slaps him to snap him out of it, to bring Dean back from wherever he's gone, Sam is cold and heavy and not sleeping at all and Dean still doesn't want to stop touching him. He can't, and Bobby has to pry Sam out of Dean's hands in order for them to get out of Cold Oak.

Dean feels like he's had his heart ripped out and stuck back inside his chest, the wound closed with surgical tape.

The room they get given in the motel is cold, but Sam's lips are colder. They're cold and dead and wrong when Dean leans down to kiss him. It doesn't feel like kissing Sam at all and Dean has to chug bourbon, scrub his lips with a flannel, anything to erase that from his sense memory. He wants to remember what kissing Sam was really like, when he was warm and breathing promises into Dean's mouth.

He wants Sam back more than he wants to live, and it takes him all of an hour to stop fixating on his gun sitting on the table, and start driving.

***

Sam is livid of course. Dean knew he would be, but he can't hear it. Not now, not ever. Sam doesn't understand what it's like, to have to watch the only person you have in the world, lying dead and cold and untouchable. Dean would have done it a hundred times over if it meant having Sam back like he is now.

One hundred percent pure Sam, or not. He doesn't care.

Dean kisses him in the Impala, pushes him up against the door and kisses him hard. He knows that it might hurt Sam, his back all pushed up against the door like that, but he can't help it.

Sam tastes just like he always did, he's warm and alive and he kisses Dean back just as hard. They've never been like this before. Never so desperate or longing and God, so much need. Dean has his hands all over Sam; he can't stop touching him, his fingers moving over every inch. Sam's face, his neck, his collarbone, his chest and nipples through the material of his t-shirt.

Dean pushes forward, must push too hard because Sam winces, his face contorted in pain. Dean feels guilt stabbing him in the gut and he pulls Sam towards him. Drags him by the shirt and hauls him across Dean's lap.

"Sorry," Dean gets out between kisses. "So sorry, Sam."

Dean doesn't even know what he's apologising for anymore, but he doesn't care. Sam is here, and Sam's not leaving and Dean has his hand in Sam's pants and he's jerking him, rough and fast. Sam's bucking his hips forward and back, riding Dean's hand and he's making the most amazing noises. Dean thinks the friction alone and the hot, sweet sounds that are coming from Sam might just be enough to get him off.

He doesn't want that. As good as this is, it feels wrong to be fucking around like this in the car, like Sam's his desperate prom date.

"Wanna get you inside," Dean says, his voice ragged and unrecognisable, even to his own ears. "Need to touch you everywhere, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam breathes. "Yeah, okay."

The walk from the car to the motel room feels like it takes an hour. So much want and pain in the air between them, like it's magnetic and it kills Dean to have to walk those few steps, with his fingers itching to touch Sam so badly.

Dean shakes as he unlocks the door. He's never been nervous about sex before, God knows he's had it enough times and with Sam too, but this is different. It's all so different now and he takes off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and pulls his t-shirt over his head with quivering hands.

By the time Sam shuts the door, Dean is half-dressed, his jeans undone and his boots kicked off and Sam just stands there for a minute, watching him, breathing hard.

"God. You're so..." Sam trails off like he can't finish what he was going to say. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, but he's taking too long and Dean strides over to him, bats his hands out of his way and grabs the two sides of the shirt, ripping it in two, the buttons flying.

"Dude! Could you be more of a Neanderthal?" Sam frowns and shrugs off the remains of his shirt and pulls his t-shirt off. "Seriously?"

"Just needed to." He rubs at Sam's throat, fingers on his carotid, feeling the blood pulse under them. Dean turns his head away. Something inside him twists because of it, the feel of Sam's pulse against his fingers, where hours ago there was none.

Sam's eyes narrow, like he's thinking. Like he's trying to gauge exactly what's going through Dean's head. He gets his boots off and pulls off his jeans and boxers, so he's standing there naked, hard. Dean closes his eyes for a minute, not wanting to look at Sam as he sheds his own boots and the rest of his clothes. Sometimes Sam is so intense that it's too much and right now, everything's too much. Too easy to look at Sam and remember what he looked like, lying there cold and dead and Dean needs to get that image out of his head right fucking now.

"Hey," Sam says, turning Dean's face back towards him. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere special." Dean shrugs, his heart racing. "Nowhere I wanna go again."

"Good," Sam breathes into his ear and he pushes Dean back towards the bed. Reaches into his bag on the way and throws a bottle of lube at Dean.

"Wow. Always thought you were a romantic, Sam." Dean laughs as he catches the bottle. Smirk on his face as he sits on the bed, his back against the headboard.

"Time for romance later," Sam mutters, getting up on the bed and kneeling in front of Dean. "Right now, I'm horny and I want to get fucked."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Dean kisses him, frantic and hard and Dean can feel Sam shaking under his hands. Sam moans into his mouth, words that Dean thinks he probably shouldn't be hearing. Private words that Sam probably doesn't even know are tumbling out.

"Do it, Dean," Sam breathes, warm and comforting against Dean's skin. "Please."

Sam needs to know he's alive, just as much as Dean needs to know Sam is. Dean slicks his fingers, pushes two into Sam and fucks him slow and deep. It's been a long time since he's done this, fucked Sam without preamble and his cock feels like it's aching to get inside. Sam braces himself, one hand on either side of Dean's head, riding Dean's fingers and the sight just about makes Dean lose it right there.

"Ready," Sam manages to get out, biting his lip.

"You sure?" Dean smirks as he adds another finger, watching Sam the whole time as he adjusts around Dean's fingers. Dean's cock is hard and leaking and desperate to get inside Sam, but he loves this even more. Loves to watch Sam come apart for him like this. Loves to make him incoherent and desperate and willing to do anything just to get off. Wants to do that every single day for the next 365.

But that has no place here, that thought. It makes Dean's stomach turn over and makes him flinch and that's not what he wants to be thinking about right now, so he lowers his mouth and sucks on Sam's nipple, working it with his lips and teeth and Sam hisses, thrusting himself forward.

"Yes I'm sure, you gigantic cocktease," Sam groans, "just do it."

Dean reaches for his bag with his spare hand, but Sam lays a hand on top of his, stopping him.

"No condom," Sam whispers, "Wanna feel you inside me. Just you."

Dean feels like he just got punched in the gut, right there. He stares at Sam for a few seconds, Sam's eyes as dark and full of intent as he's sure his own are, and that's all the reassurance he needs. He thrusts his fingers deep inside Sam one more time, deeper, watching Sam's eyes close and his head go back. Dean grabs Sam with his free hand, grabs him by the hair and pulls him in, smashing their lips together. He pulls his fingers out and manoeuvres Sam, gets his thighs in the right place so he can sink down on Dean.

Dean's expecting Sam to ease down onto him, work himself down on Dean slowly, but he doesn't. Sam is scared and angry and desperate and he takes Dean's cock inside him, sliding down onto it without pausing. It must hurt, Dean thinks, Sam was nowhere near open enough to take Dean like that, but apart from Sam squinting for a few seconds, he's not exhibiting any signs of pain.

Sam is hot and tight around his fingers, but that's nothing compared to how he feels when Dean's inside him. No condom, and Dean can't believe how amazing Sam feels without that barrier there, perfect and slippery-hot and the friction is just incredible. They've never done it like this before, either. Sam's always on his hands and knees, or lying on his back, and Dean realises he wasn't prepared for this, the sight of Sam riding him, fucking himself on Dean's cock while he strokes himself. Sam looks so completely whorish, his hips working and his head thrown back while he worries his lip with his teeth. Dean has both hands on Sam's waist, holding him there and he knows he's going to have this image imprinted in his mind for as long as he lives.

Sam is close and he's starting to make those crazy-hot groaning noises he always makes when he's almost there. It makes him move faster, more frantic and Dean starts to take control, pulling Sam all the way off him and then slamming in all the way as he pulls Sam back down onto his cock.

Sam moans, "Fuck. Fuck," and comes all over Dean's chest and face. Dean doesn't hesitate for a second, he pulls out, flips Sam onto his stomach, pulls Sam's thighs back and slams in, all the way. One hand is on Sam's shoulder for leverage and the other's fisting Sam's cock, wringing every last bit of his orgasm out of him. Dean can't get enough of this, Sam opening up for him still, coming apart under him as Dean fucks him harder and deeper than he ever has.

It's too much; Sam under him and all his and alive and Dean inside him, slamming into him, relentlessly. He wants it to last forever, but Dean's body has other ideas. He only gets a couple more strokes in before he feels his balls tighten and he buries himself in Sam one more time, deep, and Dean's coming inside him, groaning and gasping for breath.

"Jesus," Sam mumbles into the pillow. "You trying to kill me?"

Dean pulls out gently and collapses next to him.

"You are so not funny," he says, whacking Sam across the back of the head. "Not even a little bit."

"Don't worry." Sam rolls over carefully, obviously avoiding the wound in his back. "I won't be leaving you again."

"Yeah," Dean closes his eyes, his mouth curling into a grin. "I should be so lucky."

Sam laughs, and the sound cuts through the silence, sharp and clear. Sounds so good it makes Dean's chest ache.

Dean has a year to live but his brother's alive and, for once in his life, Dean believes Sam's not going anywhere.

 

 

end


End file.
